Borogravia or Bust
by Roruna
Summary: Vimes is off to Borogravia for the events put forth in MR. Be warned, definite Monstrous Regiment Spoilers. Hope you like it.


_Author's Note: I do not own Discworld, much to my regret. I will be honest; I'm not quite sure where this fanfic is going to lead beyond that at some point, Vimes will be in a dress. I shall strive to reach that point sooner rather than later. _

Vimes had just finished packing. At least he hoped he'd finished packing. Technically, it was Sybil that had done the packing for him since Vimes never really went any place where more than a change of underwear was required. The large steamer trunk was closed with finality at last. "That should be everything. I packed your winter clothes since you'll be up in the mountains and I've heard it's a good idea to wear two sets of long johns on a broomstick." Vimes nodded hopelessly. He was impressed though. Despite the ordeal of giving birth, Sybil had bounced back remarkably well. He'd heard that even young women took about a month to fully recover and that was if things had gone smoothly. But Sybil refused to stay in bed for more than a week and before the month was out, she was stomping around the dragon pens like she'd always done.

Sybil was standing in front of the large closet and muttering busily to herself. Young Sam was lying in a little bassinet next to their bed. He was awake and studying the ceiling intensely. After a few minutes, Young Sam started to cry in that high pitched screech that Vimes had come to know and dread. Sybil rushed over to him. She picked him up and held him in one arm leaving a hand free to unbutton her top. Vimes looked away. _There is nothing wrong or disgusting about this. Babies need feeding and that was what breasts were created for. Everyone knows that._ And as far as nursing mothers went, Sybil was actually quite discreet. She treated feeding Young Sam the same way she treated using the bathroom.

She'd leave the room, close the door, do what she had to and then came back and not make any mention of it. This was fine by Vimes except that Sybil did treat feeding Young Sam the same as using the bathroom. What this really meant was that if Vimes was already in there, she'd go in anyway. She'd wait of course, if he was already in the middle of doing what she needed to but if not, she'd just get started as if he wasn't there. It's a married thing. After awhile all married couples learn to use the bathroom while their spouse is in there. This was a level of intimacy that Vimes had hitherto never experienced with any other woman.

He'd glance quickly at Sybil just to see if she'd finished yet and then would turn away again. "Sam, you're being silly." Sybil said in a somewhat distracted tone. Vimes turned to look at her and then turned away again before responding. "I am not. It's just…" Sybil sighed. "Sam, there's nothing strange about this…" Vimes raised his hands. This was an argument they'd gotten rather good at over the past few weeks. "I know, I know. It's perfectly natural, that's what they were made for… I just wish you would… I don't know, not be so open about it." Vimes still wasn't looking at Sybil but he just knew that she'd rolled her eyes. "I don't feed Young Sam in front of everyone and you've already seen them often enough. So I don't see what the problem is." Vimes felt himself going red.

There were probably several things that bothered him about watching his wife breastfeed his child. Mostly the problem was that he had gotten used to breasts as things that are nice to look at and very fun to play with and suddenly seeing them used for their intended purpose was like being caught sitting at a table that had been reserved for someone else. He sat down on the steamer trunk. He drummed his fingers on the lid. "I think I should pack a bit lighter… I mean, we're going to start on broomstick. I'm not sure there's a compartment in a broom for a big trunk." Sybil sighed. "You're probably right. Maybe a few bags would be easier to keep on the broomstick." Sybil started moving to the door, Young Sam was still in the middle of dinner. Vimes intercepted her. "I'll do that. You just… er… finish up." He said weakly.

In the end, he stuffed as much as he could into his grandfather's old duffel bag that had a dozen straps of varying lengths and could be slung over one's shoulder, on one's back or held in one's hand, depending on a person's preference. Once upon a time, Vimes could fit all his worldly possessions into it whenever he needed to move. For the first year of marriage, Vimes had kept the duffel bag in the back of his closet, close at hand in the event of the dark and, he thought, inevitable day when Sybil came to her senses and kicked him out. Over time, Vimes forgot about the duffel bag and it was unconsciously buried at bottom of the closet under old boots and clothes that were too tattered to wear but weren't thrown away for reasons ranging from sentimentality to optimism about how salvageable they were.

Sybil kissed him good bye at the door. "Be careful, dear." Vimes nodded sheepishly. "I'll be back soon…" He muttered and kissed the top of his son's soft head. It was silly but he wondered if Young Sam would forget about him while he was gone. It probably didn't matter. The boy didn't really look directly at anyone. Vimes guessed that Young Sam could probably differentiate Sybil from the rest of the world because that's where food came from. Sybil looked at the ground coyly. She cleared her throat. "I er… wanted to give you something… For when you get homesick or you start to miss us." Vimes nodded slowly and wondered where this shyness had come from. Sybil handed Young Sam to Willikins and went through the pockets of her scorched leather apron. She pulled out a small oblong and handed it to him.

It was a small iconograph of Sybil holding Young Sam in her arms. She was standing outside in the bright sunlight and waving at whoever had taken the iconograph. Young Sam was staring in the same general direction, probably fascinated by the light reflected off the lens and was wearing a pale blue cap that almost swallowed his entire head. Vimes started at the picture. There was something vaguely familiar about it. "I got it from Otto yesterday…" She said quietly and hoped that Vimes wouldn't take too much notice. Vimes blinked. He rushed back into the house to retrieve the copy of yesterday's evening edition of the Ankh-Morpork Times. He peeled away layers of newspaper and found the society section. There was a copy of the iconograph Sybil had just handed him. Beside it was another picture cut from that one that zoomed in on Young Sam's face. The caption read: "Ankh-Morpork's Future Most Eligible Bachelor".

If Vimes had been a clock, this would have been the moment when something went _clonk _and several cogs and springs fell out. He didn't mind the political cartoons (1), he didn't mind the editorials that picked apart every Watch related decision he made (2), he didn't mind those times when he was left with absolutely no choice but to talk to Mr. De Worde and his notebook and he didn't mind that no matter what happened, somehow De Worde was always there just before he was. That was just… well, it was becoming one of the hazards of the job. Just like attending receptions and scaling mountain ranges of paperwork. The point was that it was all _work _related and Young Sam had nothing to do with Vimes' job. William De Worde and Otto Chriek had no right and no reason to go near Young Sam.

He walked back to the front door. Still fuming, he silently handed Sybil the society section. She stared at it for some time and then said, "I think I'll cut out the article and put it in Young Sam's baby book." Vimes groaned. Yes, and we'll title it 'baby's first run-in with the godsdamn press'. It sickened him to think that it was going to come before 'baby's first word'. He seriously was considering going down to the Times' office and breaking De Worde's nose. But he couldn't. He was the Commander of the City Watch and the Duke of Ankh-Morpork and father to Young Sam and he mustn't do things like that besides De Worde and Chriek had already left for Zlobenia.

(1) Actually he did mind them, a lot. They embarrassed him no end.

(2) No really, he didn't mind the editorials. He read them very calmly took into account the writer's point of view, then he'd set the article down on the floor of one of the dragon pens and let the dragons give the writer a little rebuttal.


End file.
